


Toward a Brighter Tomorrow

by LadyOfTheOldWorld



Series: Of Mania and Melancholy [3]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar I Disorder, Crossdressing, Depressive Episode, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Suzuya Juuzou, Genderfluid Tomoe Hotaru, I Am Nice To No One, M/M, Slight Sailor Moon crossover, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-07 11:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfTheOldWorld/pseuds/LadyOfTheOldWorld
Summary: These days, not much could shake Suzuya Juuzou anymore. Of course, then a certain rotten fruit just had to go and prove that wrong. Juuzou finds himself unable to deal with the aftermath alone.Hopefully, tomorrow would be a brighter day.





	1. On Precarious Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hamliet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamliet/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The (Mis)Adventures of Goat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256339) by [Hamliet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamliet/pseuds/Hamliet). 



> For Hamliet; inspired by a moment in chapter 26 of their _The (Mis)Adventures of Goat_. Connected with my other work, _Fly Like a Bird_. The tags should give you a good idea of what's going on here.

These days, not much could shake Juuzou anymore.

After everything he’d been through, his childhood completely aside, he wasn’t easily ruffled anymore. He’d almost lost his father-figure, and lost half a leg in the same instance. He’d had to balance gaining a squad and being diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder. He’d put himself back into Rei’s shoes for the sake of the people he was slowly realizing that he cared so much for. He’d formed a meaningful and stable relationship with his second, Abara Hanbee. In the past years of working with Goat he’d come to see Ghouls as people, coming to form lasting and incredibly significant bonds with (most of) the people he worked with. He and Hanbee had even gotten married and adopted a child together, things he wouldn’t have dreamed of being possible a few scant years before. In short, Juuzou was _not_ someone to be easily put off balance, whether physically or metaphorically speaking, and yet… And _yet_ , one fucking _rotten fruit_ had managed it with a few simple words.

He had walked away from what had been supposed to be a simple interrogation with Furuta, unsettled in ways he hadn’t felt for quite some time. Even with Hanbee – his husband, his other half, his _anchor_ – there immediately when Juuzou left the ‘house’ where the rotten fruit was being held, he still found himself wandering in a fog. _So, you think you’re like your_ oh-so-precious _mentor now, hm~? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re_ nothing _. You’re_ nothing _, and you will never_ be _anything, least of all like Shinohara._ It shouldn’t have bothered him. It shouldn’t have been able to stagger him like this. And yet it had – but Juuzou couldn’t even summon a feeling in response. Not rage, not hate, not even annoyance. Nothing was responding to him, and it seemed as if Hanbee offered ice cream from a thousand miles’ worth of fog away. Numbly, he nodded, hoping that sugar would help to reanimate his limbs and restore some iota of function to his body and his perception.

Of course, since Fate just _loved_ to fuck with him, none of that actually happened. He barely even registered as ice cream dripped down his fingers – strawberry, his favorite, bright pink and sticky – ruby eyes sightless and their color dulled to something more resembling maroon than their usual bright hue. Suddenly, it occurred to Juuzou that this feeling wasn’t something _new_ he didn’t know how to deal with. (Of course, with how much it had taken him by surprise, it might as well have been.) Suddenly, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on his head, he was brought mentally back to the days following the incident with Eto that had nearly killed Shinohara. Numb fingers twitched, spasmed, feeling a coldness that had nothing to do with the ice cream that they were covered in. Distinctly, Juuzou felt the weight of a revolver in his palm, felt the icy-hot bite of the metal against his too-thin skin and too-boney fingers. His hand spasmed again.

The strawberry ice cream cone hit the ground.

He could vaguely hear Hanbee calling out to him, an uncharacteristic panic written across his lover’s face. Moving as if on autopilot, he pulled out his phone, fingers struggling to type in the number of his therapist. After failing four times, he finally succeeded, stumbling away from his husband’s almost desperate grip on his shoulders. The waiting time for his psychiatrist to pick up seemed like eternity, but eventually the soft, cool voice of the woman that had helped him resew the snapped thread of his sanity in those early, dark days answered his silent screams for help. Just as she _always_ had, and just as she had _always_ assured him that she _always_ would, no matter the time of day or night. Dr. Tomoe listened patiently, quiet and attentive as Juuzou forced his lips and tongue to form words, feeling as if he were trying to swim through freezing cold cement. Had this been any other situation, he might have laughed hysterically and helplessly.

Time turned liquid; by the time that he was finished with his desperate call, Shinohara was arriving, looking equally as distressed as Hanbee. It seemed that his husband had called his father, and Juuzou couldn’t even react. No sunburst of warmth, the feelings that always seemed to want to leap right from his chest, whenever two of his favorite people were there together with him. No rush of sweet affection and care for his other half, whenever Hanbee read his needs before he himself even knew what they were. Nothing. Just an empty coldness, numb and heavy limbs, a head filled with cotton-thick fog. His body reacting without the permission or direction of his mind, he recited to them what his psychiatrist had told him. That different symptoms of a depressive episode, ones other than irritability and his usual lack of care as to whether something was tantamount to suicide or not, could show up over time. That even though he had previously mainly dealt with mania, depression should never be forgotten as the other side of the coin.

She wasn’t _exactly_ sure what had triggered such an episode, but had written him in for an emergency appointment the next day at noon. They would likely discuss what had happened with the rotten fruit, what had been said, and possibly make adjustments or additions to his medication and/or therapy regimen. Still trapped in the cold and unforgiving fog, Juuzou accompanied Shinohara and Hanbee to pick up Hiroto without comment or protest. He couldn’t make himself smile at his son, not even when the boy rushed toward him and nearly tackled him to the floor. Hanbee gathered their child up, murmuring something about daddy not feeling well, and Juuzou couldn’t even muster a shred of disgust for himself. He knew it wouldn’t help, that it was counterproductive, but to feel something – _anything_ – just then would have been preferable to this… _nothingness_. Liquid time prevailed again, and the next thing he was aware of, he found himself collapsing into the bed he shared with Hanbee.

He could hear Hanbee and Shinohara trying to explain things to Hiro, and Juuzou could only close his eyes in numb acceptance.

Hopefully, tomorrow would be a brighter day…


	2. Swimming through Cold Cement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't intend to continue this, but I had a dream, so here you go. If anyone complains about the updated tags, I will fight you.

Tomorrow, it turned out, was _not_ a brighter dy.

From the moment that the cognizance of being awake seeped back into his conscious mind, Juuzou could tell that today wasn’t going to be any better than the last had been. Even just lying there, curled against Hanbee’s chest as if his husband could shield him from the world, the petit male felt exhausted. His entire body felt heavy, as if he had fought through a horde of ghouls without rest for hours on end. A cold mist seemed to cling to everything, making it feel at least ten degrees colder than it probably actually was, even though some part of his mind knew that it was all in his head. Dull maroon eyes fluttered open for a moment, catching sight of the clock on the nightstand over Hanbee’s shoulder, the red LED numbers flipping to 7:30AM as his vision focused. For a moment, everything was quiet, as Juuzou’s eyes fluttered closed once more. Apparently, even keeping them open was too much of a strain on energy that he didn’t have, just then…

The silence, however, was promptly shattered by Hiro’s barging into the bedroom. Ever able to preempt Juuzou and their son’s hyperactivity, Hanbee caught the child-shaped missile before Hiro could land on the bed and on top of Juuzou as a result. Corralling their son, the ravenette got out of bed and dressed admirably quickly while wrangling Hiro and keeping his attention. Juuzou would have been thankful for it, if even thinking about feeling anything at all didn’t also sap him of energy that he didn’t seem to have. It was quite the oxymoron that someone usually so hyperactive and spastic had no energy to even feel, but – as Dr. Tomoe had often reminded him – that was what mental illness _did_ , especially depression. It stripped the color and life from the world until nothing seemed the same anymore. Thinking of his psychiatrist reminded Juuzou that he had an appointment that day, not that he could summon any feelings regarding that fact.

Meanwhile, Hanbee had ushered Hiro out of the room, and was presumably getting him ready for the day spent at Goat with the other children. Of course, that mentally opened a door that Juuzou hadn’t even known existed until he had almost lost Shinohara. A door that he had previously had little trouble keeping closed, mostly thanks to his medication and Hanbee’s presence. Now, it was flung wide once more, flooding his mind with thoughts that he had never wanted to think again. He had told himself that Big Madam’s words hadn’t hurt – after all, he was already numb to pain – but now they echoed off the walls of his skull like some sort of sick, cacophonous litany. _Mindless_. _Pliable_. _Easily manipulated_. Twisted as his mind was, and sounding a bit like the rotten fruit, it added its own to the mix. _Stupid_. _Worthless_. _Good-for-nothing_. Would Hanbee and Hiro have been better off _without_ him? Thin fingers with red painted nails spasmed, feeling the phantom weight of the revolver in his hand once more.

Suddenly, Hanbee’s concerned expression flooded Juuzou’s vision. (When had he managed to open his eyes again…?) His husband was kneeling beside the bed, tall, thin frame bent almost double to be at eye level. He watched the ravenette’s lips move as he spoke, but didn’t seem to register any sound. Hanbee had called Shinohara to take Hiro with him to Goat this morning, since he didn’t want to leave Juuzou alone. Once again, the smaller of the two males found himself wondering at how his husband could read him better than he could read himself, seeming to have known about Juuzou’s dark thoughts before they had even taken root in his mind. Lips moving numbly in response, he thought he may have thanked Hanbee, but couldn’t have been sure. Eyes fluttering closed once more, Juuzou was vaguely aware of trying to curl more tightly into a ball, though his body remained largely unresponsive. The last thing he was even remotely aware of, before fitful sleep claimed him, was feeling Hanbee kiss his forehead.

Three hours passed before Juuzou was next aware of being conscious, but he felt no more rested than he had when he had first woken up. Red LED numbers stared balefully at him, proclaiming that it was 10:30AM, and that he _really_ needed to get up if he wanted to make it on time to his appointment. Getting up was easier said than done, however; his limbs felt as if they were made of lead, unresponsive and unwieldy in the same breath. After five minutes of trying to get his body to react to him – something that would have panicked the usually fleet-footed male, had he been able to summon an emotional response – the gods seemed to take pity on him, as Hanbee chose then to enter their bedroom. Sardonically, Juuzou wondered if he would ever stop being surprised by how good Hanbee was at knowing what he needed, as his husband gently lifted him out of bed to help him get dressed. He attempted to quip that he wasn’t made of glass, but his frozen lips refused to obey.

Today, Fate was going to play with him like a cat with a mouse, Juuzou quickly discovered. Neurons managed to fire in his brain long enough for him to express a preference as to what he wore, and the petit male wanted to scream. _Of course_ this was something that he managed to express. _Of course_ it would be on today, of all days. Normally, he had no problem with it, and would punch anyone that even seemed to have a problem with it. Of course, today just _happened_ to be a day where Hanbee would have to do said punching _for_ him, something that also made Juuzou want to scream. A short-sleeved wine red blouse (with black lace at the collar, hem, and sleeves) and a layered knee-length black skirt (with red ribbon accents) highlighted his pale skin nicely. Black stockings and kitten heels, with his usual red hairpins, pulled the outfit together nicely. In the end, despite screaming within the confines of his own mind at the helplessness of the situation, getting ready turned out to be the simplest process.

As Juuzou found that he had no appetite, and Hanbee wouldn’t force him to eat, the two simply made their way to the building where Dr. Tomoe’s office was located. Both during the car ride and while they waited for noon to strike, Juuzou remained silent, more staring off into space than anything else. He also proceeded to ignore concerned texts (and eventually calls) from his father. Hanbee answered Shinohara’s texts and calls, but as Juuzou remained unresponsive and uncommunicative, he had little to no information to give his father-in-law. Unlike the previous day, time seemed to crawl by rather than slip through his fingers like liquid, and Juuzou quickly found himself trying to push away the dark thoughts once more. As the minutes creeped by, red-painted nails subconsciously started picking at equally red thread, before Hanbee reached out to take his hand and gently squeeze in helpless but stalwart support. Gazes meeting, Juuzou offered his husband an attempt at a smile.

The clock struck noon, and Dr. Tomoe came out to collect Juuzou for his appointment.


	3. The Good Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter seems at all wonky toward the end, I twisted my ankle today, and since I'm almost completely blind, working with my laptop actually on my lap wasn't at all easy. Pardon any spelling and/or grammar errors, and please point them out to me.
> 
> Also, Tenou Haruka, Kaiou Michiru, Tomoe Hotaru, her parents, and her father's assistant don't belong to me. They're property of Takeuchi Naoko, the woman who created Sailor Moon. I guess this makes this a semi-crossover, now...

Dr. Hotaru Tomoe was, at first glance, quite an unassuming woman.

However, to those that knew her – her wife, her adoptive parents, her friends, her patients – she was more like a force of nature. Ordinary on the surface, but preternatural beneath it. Standing at just a hair taller than 160 centimeters and weighing in at just over 45 kilograms soaking wet, preternatural would seem an out of place adjective unless her personality were taken into account. She could be demure and sweet one moment, and then fiercely protective and iron-willed the next, willing to verbally tear down anyone that so much as spoke an unbecoming word of her precious people. Over the years, Juuzou had come to realize that her patients were included in those she considered precious, and that she would fight for them almost more ferociously than her friends and family. It was this commitment to her precious people, that had been why Juuzou had opened up to her in the dark days following almost losing his own life due to his guilt over what had happened with Shinohara.

Had he been in better spirits, he would have found it musing that they were both expressing their genderfluidity today. In truth, that was another reason that had led him to open up to the older woman. Juuzou had, in the beginning, been unsure himself if what he felt – a desire to sometimes express himself more femininely – was actually something native to his personality, or simply something that spending years as Rei had warped him into enjoying. Arriving to one of those early sessions to find his psychiatrist in a well-tailored, clearly masculine set of clothes, however, had made him feel at the least comfortable voicing his confusion about his gender expression. From that point on, it had simply been a matter of determining that, yes, it was something organic to his own psyche. Honestly, it had been a relief to find out that not _all_ of him had been warped by Big Madam’s abuse. (Today, she wore a neatly tailored pair of black dress pants, paired with a dark purple turtleneck.)

The fact that they both favored dark colors was an amusing bonus, though when it came to style, they were at opposite ends of the spectrum. They both carried scars from abusive, horrible childhoods, but where Juuzou chose to show the world what he had survived, and to show them that his scars didn’t define him, his psychiatrist was the opposite. Having grown up with an absent father and a mentally and physically abusive caretaker – her father’s secretary – it had taken the slight but steadfastly loyal woman years of therapy in her own right to deal with everything that had happened. As a result of her abuse, she had developed a violent alter to deal with the memories. Having reconciled both her own personality and the “darker” one that “lived” inside of her after the aforementioned years’ worth of therapy, it had been a no-brainer for Juuzou to introduce Mutsuki to her. But, that was getting off topic quite a bit.

Juuzou showed the word his scars, but Hotaru had never had enough confidence in herself for that. At least, not while she was younger. She had discovered during her teen years, after being adopted by two of her father’s former students at twelve, that a more formal, modest style suited her best. Of course, being relentlessly bullied and mocked for her “strange” personality, for her lapses in memory while still not understanding her alter, and the few scars that she couldn’t hide despite being near-permanently excused from gym class, it wasn’t surprising that she would want to avoid bringing more pain upon herself. A search of his own had provided Juuzou with more information about the scars she hid and was initially reluctant to talk about, despite the fact that any sense of what most would call “professionalism” had been done away with by then. In the same session that he talked about how Big Madam had tried to make him into a girl, he had asked Hotaru about the fire.

At first, she had been upset, but not because he had gone behind her back. On the contrary, she hadn’t wanted talk about it simply because she hadn’t wanted to “burden” him with everything that she had endured. At that point, Juuzou had rather cavalierly pointed out that she should feel equally free to talk to him. After all, they had both gone through horrible things, and wasn’t sharing her perspective equally as important? In the end, Hotaru had relented, and offered up her own grisly tale. Her parents had both been brilliant scientists in bio-engineering and astrophysics, as well as teaching classes at a university, so much of her early years had been spent with them in their labs. When she was six, an explosion had caused a fire, killing her mother, and nearly killing Hotaru herself as well. Using his knowledge, her father had replaced much of her body with cybernetic implants covered by skin grafts, mostly in her legs and arms.

From that time on, her father had been cold and dismissive to her, treating her almost as if she were an experiment rather than his daughter. The distance was what allowed his father’s assistant to treat her like trash, but Hotaru couldn’t say that he would have stopped it even if he had known. Six years of hellish treatment later, and another explosion claimed her father and his assistant’s lives. Orphaned at twelve, Hotaru had done the only logical thing she could think of, and run to the two adults that had ever been kind to her, two of her father’s former students. The two – racer Tenou Haruka and violinist Kaiou Michiru – had adopted her as quickly as their combined wealth and the legal system would allow, and Hotaru’s long road to healing had begun. Families of choice, had been another thing that she and Juuzou had bonded over, especially when it came to adoptive parents. (Even if Shinohara hadn’t legally adopted him, he was still Juuzou’s guardian and father figure.)

He realized that he’d been lost in his head the moment that Hotaru’s voice reached him. “…also shows signs of possible catatonia in depressed state.” Ah, she was taking notes aloud. It was something that worked well for them both, as being completely honest had been almost the cornerstone of their relationship from the beginning. Now, if she needed to add anything new to his file, she would record her notes aloud. Violet eyes calm as her cool voice, the purple-tressed woman wasn’t actually looking at him, something he couldn’t fault her for, not really. Juuzou had been lost in his head for what the clock claimed was forty-five minutes of their hour-long session, so how could he expect anything more from Hotaru? It may have seemed an odd and even disrespectful relationship, but neither of them ever stood for anything less than complete honesty and openness from the other. One shouldn’t have been expected to give what the other wouldn’t, after all.

When she noticed that she finally had his attention, Hotaru offered him a small, warm smile.

“Nice of you to join me, Juuzou,” she teased gently. When it became clear he wasn’t going to respond, even though he was now more-or-less aware of what was going on, she sighed softly. “I expected as much,” Hotaru murmured, but didn’t scold him for it. It wasn’t something he could control, after all. He wasn’t being uncommunicative on purpose. No, she had _seen_ Suzuya Juuzou uncommunicative, and this certainly wasn’t that. Semi-catatonia was far removed from bullheaded stubbornness.

“I’m going to write you a prescription for an antidepressant. I normally wouldn’t say take it with your other medications on a regular basis right away, but we need to see how it’ll interact with what else you’re taking. Once we have the right dose and the right type working in tandem with your other meds, we can slowly wean it off to an as-needed basis.” As she spoke, the petite woman – she and Juuzou were the same height – filled out a prescription for him in her neat, almost perfect cursive.

Rather than hand Juuzou the slip of paper, the psychiatrist handed it off to Hanbee, when she escorted Juuzou back to the waiting room. Placing a hand on the tall ravenette’s shoulder, she murmured instructions to watch Juuzou carefully. Even if he happened to be in a state of semi-catatonia now, the antidepressants would take care of that symptom quickly enough. What was the most concerning, was the window between when the semi-catatonia went away and when Juuzou actually started feeling better and as if the medication were actually working. That window of time was crucial to be treated delicately, since it was when he was at the highest risk for self-injuring behavior or suicide attempts.

To Juuzou, as they left, she simply quoted _Gone with the Wind_.

“Tomorrow is another day.”


	4. Falling in Slow Motion

And so, time continued its relentless march forward

Following his appointment with Hotaru the day before, Hanbee had taken him home. (Though Juuzou was one of the three in charge of running Goat, he was in no fit state to be of use to anyone just then.) Once they were at home, the ravenette had tried to get him to eat something, but all the petit male had wanted was to sleep. That had sparked something like an argument between them; they never argued in the general sense of the word, as there was never any shouting, but there were certain things that they would quietly disagree over. This happened to be one of the times that they quietly disagreed. Hanbee’s position was completely logical, as Juuzou had always had something of a hard time eating what most considered a regular amount. Before they had adopted Hiroto, it had been something like their normal that Juuzou would only eat whenever Hanbee gave/made him food. Most believed that Juuzou lived on sugar; only Shinohara and Hanbee knew Juuzou used sugar and caffeine to avoid collapsing.

As such, Hanbee had been insistent. If Juuzou wanted to sleep until tomorrow, that was perfectly fine, but he would need to _eat_ something first. As long as it was even somewhat nutritious, it didn’t matter what it was. Even just an apple would have sufficed for Hanbee to be happy. Hotaru had never been happy with Juuzou’s lack of eating habits, even going so far as to diagnose him with _disordered_ eating (also known as EDNOS, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified; when someone showed symptoms of an eating disorder, but didn’t fit all the criteria), but over time, a compromise had been reached. Given his build and height, so long as he never dropped below 43 kilograms, she wouldn’t have to pursue drastic measures. What those drastic measures would be – hospitalization at the least – had haunted Hanbee for some time after he had been informed about them, about the same time as he had been introduced to Juuzou’s psychiatrist seven years ago. (He had met her after he and Juuzou had started dating.)

The fierce yet tiny woman’s words echoed loudly in his mind even now, whenever he didn’t succeed at getting Juuzou to eat. Especially after they had adopted Hiroto, he had been worried that the drastic change of having to help take care of an infant might impact his husband’s heath negatively, but it had actually seemed to have the _opposite_ effect. Juuzou had truly made a massive effort to neaten up his sleep schedule, along with actually eating of his own volition at semi-normal times, rather than Hanbee having to bribe him into eating something that wasn’t just a doughnut or three a day. Aside from the occasional stressful day when Juuzou didn’t want to make the effort, for the most part, the past few years had been blissfully calm, almost idyllically _easy_. And, gods willing, things would have _remained_ that way, if that fucking rotten fruit hadn’t had to screw everything up. Even if it weren’t all Furuta’s fault – Hotaru had stressed that this could have been building either way – it was relieving to blame him.

Back on topic, however, Juuzou was still refusing to eat, even if he weren’t actually verbally fighting back. Frustrated, and more than a bit frazzled from worrying, Hanbee had opened his mouth without even thinking. “I wish you were manic – at least then you would _talk_ to me.” The taller male tensed as soon as he had said those words, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could take them back. His own frustrations were never cause to take things out on Juuzou, especially not about this. Especially not about something that his husband couldn’t control. Especially not when he knew that Juuzou wished just as much that this wasn’t happening, that he _could_ talk to Hanbee. As he should have expected, the feminine ex-investigator simply turned on his heel and left the kitchen, Hanbee’s frantic apologies falling on deaf ears. Reaching their bedroom, Juuzou had simply opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it after himself. By the time Hanbee worked up the courage to follow, Juuzou had changed into his pajamas and passed out.

The afternoon wore on, eventually becoming evening and then night. Shinohaea dropped Hiroto off, doing his best to keep his grandson from realizing how worried he was. Feeling guilty and helpless, all Hanbee could offer his father-in-law was what Hotaru had told him. That the antidepressants should clear up Juuzou’s semi-catatonic state, but that there would be a critical window of time – roughly two weeks – between then and when the medication actually started to work. And that wasn’t even taking into account whether it was the right antidepressant or not, how it would interact with Juuzou’s antipsychotic and mood stabilizer, or what dose would help him the most. The desperate hope and fear in the older man’s eyes made the helpless feeling multiply inside of Hanbee. He got the feeling that if Shinohara had had the hair for it, he would have been tearing at it the way Juuzou often did under stress. (Sometimes, it was almost comical how many mannerisms Juuzou and his father shared…)

Shinohara had left soon after, and Hanbee had turned his attention to corralling his son so that Hiroto didn’t try to engage Juuzou’s attention. Juuzou likely wouldn’t have woken up, but it would still have been worrying for the boy, which Hanbee wanted to avoid. Of course, given how similar Hiro was to Juuzou, it was almost painfully easy to keep him occupied. Dinner was a quick affair, mostly just leftovers from the previous night, as was getting his son ready for bed. When Hiro asked if they could watch a movie before he went to bed, Hanbee had to actually pretend to consider it rather than giving in immediately. As the old saying went, it was two birds with one stone – Hiro would be too preoccupied to think about what was going on with Juuzou, and the movie would lull him to sleep, regardless of what it was. Worried as he was, Hanbee couldn’t focus on the movie; before he knew it, Hiro was sleeping through the credits.

The next morning was, as per usual, a whirlwind of activity. Having woken up earlier than usual by roughly an hour, Hanbee had decided that he would entice both Hiro and Juuzou into cooperation with pancakes. It should probably have felt fundamentally wrong to emotionally manipulate his son and husband, but sometimes the slight manipulations were all that got Hanbee through the day with only minor chaos caused by the two most important people in his life. Half an hour later, he was dividing pancakes between three plates, after which he slipped from the kitchen into the bedroom he shared with Juuzou. Getting his husband up entailed none of the usual whining and bargaining today, but that was what made him all the more determined. Inside of ten minutes later found Juuzou sitting at the table, steaming cup of what really amounted to caffeinated sugar and cream rather than coffee in hand. Coaxing him into taking his medications went smoothly, and Hanbee breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.

Over the next twenty minutes before Hiro came into the kitchen, Juuzou slowly returned to full awareness. He blinked groggily at first, and his movements were sluggish, but it was a marked improvement from the day before. At least he was moving on his own; at least he seemed more in control of himself again. A second cup of “coffee” and a fair amount of whipped cream on his pancakes seemed to perk him up even more. By the time Hiro got up and ran into the kitchen to join them, no doubt lured by the smell of his favorite breakfast food, Juuzou simply seemed tired. Sipping at a glass of chocolate milk, Juuzou offered his son a small, exhausted smile. With a cry of delight, Hiro rushed at him, burrowing into his side and hugging him tightly, while Juuzou stroked his hair. “Sorry I worried you,” Juuzou murmured, ostensibly talking to Hiro, but the way his red eyes rose to meet Hanbee’s own gaze, it was clear he was talking to both his husband and his son.

Relief so powerful it almost knocked him over flooded Hanbee, and he allowed himself a small measure of hope that things would start to become less precarious. Seemingly satisfied, Hiro released Juuzou and moved to his ow chair to start on his food. Murmuring that he was going to get dressed, Juuzou stood up, took his dishes to the sink, and headed back to the master bedroom. At Hanbee’s concerned glance, he offered another small and exhausted smile, slipping out of sight while his husband was making sure their son didn’t get syrup everywhere. Closing the bedroom door firmly, Juuzou’s entire being seemed to sag against the wood as he exhaled. Normally, this wasn’t a chore; normally, his family wasn’t walking on eggshells. Normally, it didn’t feel like a lie to smile at his husband and son. This situation was miles removed from normal, but warped logic seemed to come hand-in-hand with the warped perception of mental illness.

Rationally speaking, Juuzou knew full well that he needed to give himself time. Emotionally speaking, he didn’t want to put his precious people through what taking that time entailed. If that meant that he had to lie until the medication started working and these awful feelings went away, then so be it. Shaking his head wildly to clear it, he went about getting dressed. The cold fog remained, the distant feeling remained, but it no longer felt as if he were swimming through cement. His limbs obeyed him again, his lips were no longer frozen, his voice was no longer caged inside of his mind. The insidious thoughts that he was trash were still there, but he could ignore them for the moment. That would have to be enough. Feeling scraped raw and wanting to hide, though from what he didn’t know, his usual oversized button-down, trousers, and suspenders would have to do. Something felt vaguely uncomfortable about this, but he ignored it, fixed his hairpins, and slipped on his smile as he left the bedroom.

Today, apparently, the older kids would be taking a “field trip” to see Yomo and Uta’s cat. The younger ones would go tomorrow, something that none of them were exactrly happy about. In particular, Hiroto had burst into tears when he found out, followed by he and Bing aggressively playing a video game together while fixing the adults with pointed glares. Unsure of what to say or do to comfort his son, a feeling that had once been as common as breathing but now made him vaguely ill, Juuzou had settled with keeping one eye on the kids and the other on his paperwork from the past few days. The rest of the morning was rather uneventful, especially by the standards of Goat, but the afternoon is much less so. While Juuzou was valiantly attempting to choke down a sandwich, pretending it didn’t taste like sawdust for Hanbee’s sake, Shinohara had come into the room designated for day-care and mentioned he had something he needed Juuzou to see.

Abandoning more than two thirds of what should have been his lunch, he jumped up with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary. Mentally wincing and hoping that his father didn’t suspect anything, Juuzou had focused on the news broadcast playing on Shinohara’s phone. Cursing softly, so that the kids wouldn’t overhear, he quickly sent out a text to Nishiki, knowing that the redhead would inform Yomo and Uta. _There's an anti-ghoul protest in the 4th ward_ , he reported grimly, feeling glad that he hadn’t forced himself to eat more of the sandwich. What little was in his stomach was already threatening to come back up, and not just because he hadn’t wanted to eat it in the first place. Things were heating up again, and if they didn’t get anything from the fucking rotten fruit soon, it would be out of the frying pan and into the fire with Goat and the world that they had sought to build. Even though things had been looking up. Even if other countries were discussing adopting Japan's model of working with ghouls, of a shared society. Even if Ghoul rights had been introduced into European law, some were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Even if Juuzou’s tomorrow seemed to be brighter, not everyone’s did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some respects, Juuzou's getting better; in others, he's getting worse. Only time will tell if Hanbee or Shinohara catch on before things get out of hand.
> 
> Edit 8/8/17: I ran a fine-toothed comb through chapters three and four. Nothing's changed, but spelling and any other errors have been fixed.


	5. Cracks in the Façade

The next few days turned out to be the calm before the storm.

Watching Uta give the kids ‘tattoos’ was certainly amusing, though not saying anything to the other parents was probably a bit dishonest. It was also quite entertaining to watch everyone else freak out over something that was actually quite harmless. Of course, it was likely that Juuzou felt that way because for one, Hiro hadn’t been interested in the prank, and for two, he wouldn’t have cared. By that point, he trusted Uta enough not to give the kids permanent tattoos, and if Hiro actually wanted one when he was older, then that was perfectly fine. After all, it would have been quite hypocritical if Juuzou had cared, given his own body modifications. Though, more to the point, it was that his morals were still skewed toward the violent and sadistic, even now. Violent and sadistic toward those that wanted to hurt the people he cared about, true enough, but still violent and sadistic all the same. So, yes, Juuzou would readily admit that he found it funny to watch Goat freak out over a prank involving oil-based tattoos.

However, in truth, it was mostly to reassure Hanbee and Shinohara. If Juuzou was acting like his usual self, then they had nothing to worry about. Even if he still didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. Even if every smile felt forced. Even if simply existing was still enough to exhaust him. Even if that cold, grey fog hadn’t gone away yet. Even if the thoughts that he was trash – _your father nearly died for you, you manipulated your husband into a situation that could easily have killed him_ – and that everyone would be better off _without him_ were getting louder and harder to ignore by the day. Not even the usual day-to-day happenings of Goat could distract him much. The mounting tension was certainly making him irritable, though, and that was just another thing he had to hide behind a smile that felt more and more fake with every passing minute. A tiny voice in the back of his mind kept on saying he couldn’t hide forever, but the retaliation that two weeks wasn’t forever would usually silence it.

Still, there was always the nagging feeling that he would slip up, and then everything would come spilling out into the open. It nagged at him every waking second, and in his dreams as well. Yet another thing to keep hidden, to lie about. As tended to happen with Juuzou when he was stressed, the first thing to suffer were his eating habits. He knew it was dishonest, not to mention dangerous, but he just kept on telling himself that things would get better when he started _feeling_ better. Two weeks weren’t the end of the world. Two weeks weren’t forever. Two weeks couldn’t possibly damage him enough that anyone would start to notice, right? Two weeks wouldn’t affect him enough that Hanbee would start to notice that something – _anything_ was amiss. That tiny voice in the back of his mind trying to be rational sounded more and more like Hotaru every time it spoke, listing off symptoms that he desperately tried to ignore.

Paranoia. Neurosis. Dishonesty. Cagey behavior. Hedging around the things that he didn’t want anyone to see. But it’s fine. Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. Refusing to admit to himself that he was spiraling downward rapidly, Juuzou threw himself into his work as one of the three ‘leaders’ of Goat, despite the fact that the day-to-day drudgery bores him to tears most times. Even despite that, it was all worth it whenever Shinohara gave him an encouraging smile, visibly beaming with pride. He knew that this was hard for Juuzou, and was so indescribably proud that his son was doing it all anyway. At least, he kept telling himself hat his father’s pride was enough to make this worth it. That seeing Hanbee smile at him with so much love his chest feels tight in response was making it all worth it. That seeing Hiro happy, not caring about whether his friends are human or not was making everything worthwhile. But lying to himself had never lasted long, and really, what had Juuzou expected?

Two weeks wasn’t forever, but it was more than enough for him to crack. And even if he wasn’t the one to crack first, it would be something from outside that made it happen. The call from the prime minister – more than enough reason for him to ignore lunch altogether – almost did, after all. Hearing about the two children dead would have made him throw up, if there had been anything in his stomach for him to vomit up in the first place. Of course, the reaction of the children’s family makes him sick, too, but for an entirely different reason. How could they think Goat didn't want to respond? How could it possibly be rational for them to think that Goat wanted ghouls to rise up and destroy humans, that that’d been their mission all along? Juuzou knew, rationally, he wasn’t one to talk given his past, but rationality wasn’t something he’d been acquainted with in the past few days. No, he’d made irritation, paranoia, and lies his bedfellows since the incident with the rotten fruit.

The incident with Miza and Naki just makes Juuzou laugh, but it isn’t his usual slightly sadistic laugh, even if it sounds like it. No, it’s cold and brittle and so close to cracking, just like the rest of him. But he doesn’t show it because, honestly, he doesn’t even know _how_. That was what landed him in Hotaru’s office in the first place. Even though it’d been years, they still hadn’t covered how to let people help him, mostly because Juuzou himself hadn’t even mentioned that it was an issue. Negotiating Hiro into bed, handling the situation that shouldn’t even have been a problem with Naki and Miza protecting their children, it was all painfully normal. And he didn’t even know when normal suddenly became painful because it shouldn’t be. All that he knew, was that over the past few days his view of the world had decided to warp into something he could barely recognize. While the tiny part of him that was still rational as afraid, the rest of him was simply irritated beyond words.

Still, time continued forward, heedless of how close to completely self-destructing all over again Juuzou was. Heedless of how tired he was. Heedless of how much he just wanted this to be over. Heedless of the fact that every day he woke up to find that the antidepressants hadn’t yet started to work was a day he was just that much closer to shattering. He had an appointment with Hotaru at the end of the next week, to talk about how the medication had been affecting him. If it hadn’t yet started to work by then, they’d possibly weigh the options of trying a different one, or of waiting a bit longer to see if anything changed. As for with Goat, every day without any measurable results was mostly the same. Being yelled at by newscasters and the prime minister. More ghouls joining the remnants of V. More humans forming resistance groups. A man was arrested for smuggling in a quinque. People were protesting; many felt quinques should be allowed in basic homes. Without the CCG, shouldn’t they be able to protect themselves, was the basic argument.

And yet, there comes a day. There comes a day, when Juuzou wakes up feeling less like he’s been disconnected from everything. He wakes up to the smell of breakfast, and even if the thought of eating has now started to tie his stomach in knots, everything else seems brighter. The grey fog appears as if it’s receded a bit, and he can almost feel it. That’s what Juuzou registers first, then the smell of whatever Hanbee’s cooking, and then when he opens his eyes, he finds that he’s staring at his wedding ring. It’s not a day he’s thought of much, in the past few years, though there are a few pictures documenting it around the apartment. Juuzou had worn a dress both simply because he felt like it, and to screw with anyone that may have still held any misgivings about him. He’d grown the black dye out of his hair for the occasion, allowing Akira to style it and do his make-up. A part of him had been afraid that it would feel like being Rei again, but when he hadn’t felt like anything other than himself, he had almost cried with relief.

Two people who _had_ cried, however, had been Shinohara and Hanbee. His father had managed to keep it together long enough to walk Juuzou down the aisle, but his husband had been nearly bawling by the time Shinohara had given him away. As he’d chosen to forego a veil, bangs pinned back by his usual hairpins, Juuzou had been able to smirk openly up at Hanbee. He’d cheekily requested that his husband keep it together, at least until after the vows. To Hnabee’s credit, he’d managed to calm himself enough that he was only sniffling a few moments later. Juuzou didn’t know what had happened to the dress – a backless, long-sleeved production that was relatively simple aside from being covered in lace – but supposed that Hanbee had put it in a box somewhere, possibly in the same box where Juuzou had put his female dress uniform from their CCG days. (Much like with his wedding dress, he would often switch which dress uniform he wore, just to fuck with people.)

His trip down memory lane was cut short, when he finally registered that Hanbee had been calling his name. Sitting up guiltily, Juuzou mentally reached for what was left of his act, unable to shake the feeling that he was grasping at straws. Grinning brightly, he assured his husband that everything was alright, just that he hadn’t slept very well. Hanbee looked skeptical, but seemed to accept it, as a crash from the kitchen had him scurrying back out of the master bedroom moments later. Sighing exhaustedly once his husband was gone, the petit male had gotten out of bed. If he procrastinated long enough, it was likely that Hanbee would be so preoccupied with getting Hiro ready, that he would take it on faith that Juuzou had eaten. Without thinking of the consequences, Juuzou did just that; he dug in his heels until meeting his husband and son at the front door, stress and irritation shoving something else right out of his mind. Given that that time had been spent putting more effort than usual into getting ready (a dress like the one he had worn to the auction, his hair in curls) he was too busy being relieved to think straight just then.

Fate had always loved to play him for a fool, but this time, he had played right into her hands. The day itself went fine, and Juuzou found that he finally had some of the energy that he was known for back. The energy he’d spent nearly two weeks lying to everyone’s faces about having. Energy that, if he bothered to think about it, would remind him of the days before Hotaru, before medication, before Hanbee. If he took time to think about it, rather than being relieved and ignoring it, he would have seen that it wasn’t energy, but something else far more worrying. But, of course, as Fate had proven time and time again, she loved making him her bitch. At the end of the day, he caught Kuro and Nahiro coming out of the day-care room, only vaguely aware of being followed by his husband, Nakarai, and his father. Shiro made him think of her aunt, and it still sometimes flooded him with guilt, so to preempt that possible guilt, he reassured her about her father. That was when all Hell broke loose.

"Will you stab him instead?" asks Nashiro.

Everything seemed to freeze, for a moment. Juuzou halted, frowning, unsure of where this was going or what it could possibly mean. He felt Hanbee stiffen just as well, his husband drawing in a breath. He feels the dress settling about his knees, petticoat and skirt billowing in the sudden breeze from his lack of movement. He can feel eyes on his back, but isn’t sure if they belong to his father, or to Hanbee. Either way, they’re concerned. Nakarai attempts to preempt a meltdown – at least, Juuzou _hopes_ that that was what his half-aborted question would have led to – but little Nashiro’s not having any of it, her mother frozen in equal shock.

"Like you killed my aunt Nashiro?" asks Nashiro.

More people arrived, and all of them reacted, but Juuzou couldn’t hear them, couldn’t process anything but her questions. His vision had tunneled, focus zeroed in on the girl that he had never hated but never quite been able to love, by that same token. He felt the blood drain from his face, imagining that he was about the same shade of white as his hair, but couldn’t find a reaction to it. Couldn’t dredge up anything beyond the roaring in his ears, the shaking in his hands, the buzzing itch under his skin. It’s his son’s distraught cry – defending him, even though he doesn’t deserve it – that finally throws Juuzou into a reaction.

Turning, he fled up the stairs, heedless of Nakarai’s barreling after him. Heedless of his son screaming at Nashiro. Heedless of anything other than the all-consuming urge to be _gone_. To get away from that scene, the look in her eyes, the tightness in his chest. And as he runs upward, up flights of stairs and past landings, that voice in his head breaks though all of his walls. _Mindless. Pliable. Easily manipulated. Stupid. Worthless. Good-for-nothing. Murderer. Monster. Freak. You should have died in that cell. You should have almost died instead of Shinohara. You should have thought about someone else’s feelings before nearly getting yourself killed to prove a point. Everyone you care about would be better off if you were DEAD._ Bursting out onto the roof, Juuzou hurled himself toward the edge, heedless and uncaring.

Nakarai caught him around the waist – honestly, not a hard thing to do, given how tiny he was – preventing Juuzou from flinging himself off and to the pavement below. Juuzou thrashed, screaming things that hardly even made sense about how everyone would be better off without him, but the blond wouldn’t have it. "If you think I’m going to let you _off yourself_ ," he growled, subduing his former squad leader to the best of his abilities without hurting the petit male, "you’ve got another _fucking_ thing coming."

Heedless of the continued lashing out and protests, Nakarai dropped to the floor of the roof, back pressed against the small cement lip and Juuzou pressed against his side. Slowly, Juuzou’s screams subsided, turning into sobs which too eventually quieted. Juuzou didn’t cry into his shoulder, and Nakarai didn’t look down at him. Neither of them were entirely comfortable, but still, Juuzou couldn’t help but feel grateful. Keijin could have dragged him back downstairs. He could have refused to deal with him, just dropped him off on Hanbee or Shinohara, but he hadn’t. And as much as Juuzou was still unsure if the three other members of his squad cared (thanks to that nasty little voice), at least it was someone who had seen most of his scars, rather than someone who hadn’t. Curls ruined and dress crumpled, Juuzou eventually passed out from emotional and physical exhaustion.

Not even Hotaru could have convinced him tomorrow would be a brighter day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for things getting brighter... But will they stay this dark forever? Only I know the answer to that. (Also, I'm sorry for the shifting tenses. I'd have to rewrite the chapter to correct them, and they seem to fit.)


	6. Shatter Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where it officially diverges from the (Mis)Adventures. Any and all errors/general weirdness are from writing something while manic after not eating/sleeping/medicating for over forty-eight hours. Though, I suppose that that helps with "realism," or something...

So, now everything was out in the open.

Well, no. That was a lie. Everything with the _kids_ was out in the open – at least, when it came to their parents’ sordid pasts. Everything with Juuzou was… slowly starting to seep through the cracks. Of course, if Hanbee wanted to believe that Juuzou wasn’t eating because of what had happened, then that was just fine. After all, it certainly wasn’t because his body had finally said _fuck it_ and decided that rejecting food was the best solution. It wasn’t because he was shattering inside, all glass shards tearing up what was something stable and beautiful not two weeks ago. Nor was it at all because there were three orange pill bottles marked as being an antipsychotic, an antidepressant, and a mood stabilizer belonging to _Suzuya Juuzou_ and proscribed by a _Dr. Tomoe Hotaru_ sitting at the bottom of a trashcan a block away. Least of all because not even his father’s words or his husband’s presence had been able to touch the yawning, empty void of agony inside of him. _Obviously_ not.

But that, like everything else, was. A. _LIE_. Why was he still lying? Why did it matter anymore? Why didn’t he just admit everything instead of hating himself so much that he smiled for the sake of the people he loved at the cost of his own sanity? Especially since the calm had only lasted a few years. It was either be numb to the feelings of others, caring for nothing and no one, or care about everyone else so much that fuck his own pain, he’d be medicated until the cows came home if it made his precious people happy. There was no in-between, and he really should have figured that out sooner. Especially when everyone would be better off if he were _dead_ , just like the voice in his head kept shrieking at every opportunity. He was a failure as a father because imitating the best was never something he was good at. He was a horrible husband because being codependent and incapable of functioning alone wasn’t at all fair to Hanbee. He was a worthless son because he hadn’t gotten it right the first time.

That egregious error would soon be corrected. Was it dishonest to manipulate Hanbee with old medication bottles? Yes. Was it cruel to use the situation with most everyone taking days to deal with their kids as a ploy to buy himself time? Yes. Did he even care anymore? Not really. Soon enough, everyone would realize that he’d just been dragging them down. He may have been part of Goat’s leadership, but he was insane in every aspect of the word, known to humans and ghouls alike for being a sadist with little to no morality to speak of, enjoying killing and the manic glee it brought him. It was all true, even now because old habits died harder deaths than even nigh-invulnerable ghouls, and he was still a _monster_ , still a _murderer_ , no matter how he tried to appear. Shinohara may have seen him as a fallen angel, but he was just a devil pretending to once have had wings of purest white, when he had always been the color of blood from the get-go.

Grinning and waving wasn’t hard. Lying through his teeth that he had something to take care of for Goat wasn’t hard. Manipulating his husband and son right out the front door wasn’t hard. Telling his father that he would be with Hanbee wasn’t hard. It hurt, oh god did it ever hurt, it hurt like Mama’s hammer all over again, but that didn’t mean that it was hard. It was easy because it was all for their own good. What sort of life would Hiro have had, with a codependent psychopath as one of his fathers, anyway? Hanbee was far more suited to being a parent, Hanbee was an actual person, and not just a shell of what resulted from a twisted mind and nonexistent soul. Shinohara and his wife and his children – people that Juuzou still considered his mother and siblings – were far better suited to caring for a broken child. After all, they were why he had lasted so long. His family and Hanbee and Hotaru. But he knew that she still felt like she should have died in the explosion that killed her mother, and even though he knew he should have died, she was stronger than he had ever been.

Shaking his head wildly, Juuzou tore at his hair to try and order his violently fractured thoughts. White strands came away in his hands, brittle and fraying because this was always just around the corner anyway. He had known what he was driving himself to, but he had done it all the same. Teetering on a tightrope between sick and well, only everything had always just been a dream, warped world of mirrors created by his broken mind. There was no sick and no well, there was just different states of sick, and whether he could function or not. And this, this _cosmic fucking mistake_ that he had to correct, was going to drive him through the floor of rock bottom like a drill based kagune on overdrive. But, for the moment, he still had enough of his faculties to plan this. Still retained enough of his wits before succumbing to the mixed state that was suicidal mania to, so to speak, _cross his t’s and dot his I’s_ as the American saying went.

In all, he had an hour. An hour before the misplaced faith his loved ones had in him began to chip away. After that, the window before the apartment was stormed would be about half an hour, probably less. Hanbee may have been trusting and desperate, but he knew Juuzou well enough to realize when he had been played. Shinohara may have had faith in him, but he knew Juuzou better than even Hanbee, as was to be expected. They would both likely realize it at the same moment, which would bring them both to find him. He knew they meant well, but this was really for the best. They would both likely be furious, but hopefully, if everything went according to plan, then they would realize that he had been nothing but a led weight all along. If all went smoothly, everything would be _better_. Now, he just needed to stop stalling. Stop planning because that was never really his style. Being unpredictable was always what had served him best, but… this time, something predictable, something _classic_ would have to do.

Knots had always been something that he was good at, which came in handy with his stitches. It gave him the ability to create texture as well as pattern, but in this case, it would be a different kind of crimson beauty that he would create with his dexterous hands. “ _C’mon, Rei, let’s pain the world red again_ ~” The words fell from his lips without conscious thought, time liquid around him. When had he locked and dead bolted the front door? When had he locked and shoved a kitchen chair in front of the bedroom door? When had he dragged in another chair? Wait, that last one was idiotic, _obviously_ between locking the front door and the bedroom door. Popping open his prosthetic was easy, selecting one of Scorpion was easy. Dragging the knife vertically from boney wrists to inner elbows was easy. Then he was standing on the second chair, tearing the aiguillettes off of his dress uniforms and Hanbee’s, staining the white fabric red. They’d work to hang himself, if he could just _figure out how to tie them together_ –

The doorknob rattled, the door itself shaking with the force. _How had he not heard the front door being_ – it didn’t matter. He could hear his father and husband shouting through the door, voices desperate, but Juuzou was deaf to sense and reality and lucidity by then. Abandoning the attempt with the uncooperative aiguillettes, blood streaking down through his fingers, he lunged for the box he kept under the bed. He hadn’t touched this since the day he had started seeing Hotaru, but had felt its weight in his hands often enough over the past two weeks to still know it quite intimately. As always, the revolver was kept loaded, too thin fingers slick with too red blood pouring from the gashes in too pale skin and frayed stitches closing around the grip just as the lock on the bedroom door gave way. Wood splintered, and the chair went flying, crashing against the far wall. Juuzou would have laughed in any other situation. Shinohara and Hanbee rushed at him as he pressed the barrel to his temple, vision going in and out from blood loss.

Someone – Hanbee? – _screamed_ as Juuzou pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say that that escalated quickly, but honestly, I don't see two weeks to spiral down into this as being "quickly," if that makes any sense. Pardon the nasty cliffhanger; next chapter will be an epilogue. I'll add chapter titles after I finish this angst train wreck up.


	7. Epilogue: If an Angelic Being Fell from the Sky...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this does everything justice, especially the wonderful universe that Hamliet created in their amazing story. It's been an angsty ride, but I hope you all enjoyed.

Grey clouds filled the sky, rain falling but not pouring.

In the stark white room, the only sound was that of a heart monitor and almost imperceptible breathing. Bright fluorescent lights cast an almost sickly glow on everything, heavy curtains drawn over the window to prevent any natural light from spilling into the room. Everything smelled of bleach and antiseptic, everything clinically cold and clean. The only color in the room was in harsh, brutal contrast to the whiteness of everything else. A tall man with long dark hair and equally black clothes sat hunched in a chair, as close to the bed as he could get, knees and shins pressed against the frame. He clutched a petit, delicate, boney hand in both of his own, the bright red nails on the tiny hand the only other color in the room. Outside, the rain picked up, tapping against the window more vigorously. Still, the monotonous beeping remained the only other sound, aside from the ravenette’s breathing and the near-imperceptible breaths of the inhabitant of the bed. Then, the silence was quietly broken.

“ _Please_ …”

The whisper was brittle and broken, as shattered in sound as occupant of the bed was in mind and body. The fragile figure in the hospital bed offered no response, as always. For a moment, it seemed as if tears would pool in the ravenette’s eyes, but no, it had been too long for tears. All of his tears had dried up long ago, sucked out of him by this situation. By the actions of his frail companion. By his _husband_ , if he could still call the white-tressed ghost that. Suzuya Hanbee – though his husband had been the “bride,” it had only seemed fitting – looked haggard, almost as broken as his love, shadows under his eyes and pale complexion betraying just how long he had remained by this bedside. For a few more moments, silence reigned again, still broken only by the rain and the heart monitor, Hanbee’s breathing and that of his husband seeming to fade into the background, nearly out of existence. The only thing that told him his beloved as till alive, was the minute rise and fall of a hollow chest under the stark white hospital robe.

Another break in the silence came when the door opened. A tall, board shouldered man with a weathered and sad but kind face stepped into the room, accompanied by a far too quiet boy. Shinohara Yukinori tried to offer Hanbee a smile, even though it was tremulous at the edges and didn’t reach his eyes, but the man in the chair wasn’t looking at his father-in-law. His eyes had finally shifted from his husband, focusing on their child. Suzuya Hiroto didn’t run toward the bed, but it couldn’t have been said that he walked, either. The movement was somewhat jerky, something between a jog and a speed walk. It seemed, if nothing else, that he’d finally heeded his grandfather’s words about not running in the hospital. Coming around the bed, Hiro wriggled his way onto Hanbee’s lap, offering both his fathers a smile. Both from habit and a true spark of warmth, the taller of Hiro’s parents wrapped an arm around the child to keep him secure. Even if Hiro didn’t need it, it was more for Hanbee’s benefit than anything else. He needed some reassurance this wasn’t all for nothing.

As Hiro began narrating about his day – much like his more petit father had once been, he could ramble on for hours if allowed – eyes shifted under almost translucent lids, white eyelashes fluttering. Maroon eyes opened slowly, color dulled and empty of emotion. Empty of _anything_ , really. The rest of the sharp, feminine face remained completely blank, head not even shifting on the pillow, face remaining turned toward the door. From his position on the other side of the bed where he was seated in another chair, Shinohara did his best to catch his son’s gaze, but didn’t receive a reaction even when he managed it. It made his heart clench and twist painfully, seeing his beloved child like this, but Hotaru had been bleakly honest about the red-eyed male’s condition. _“It’s not catatonia,”_ she had sighed, sounding frustrated and tired. _“It’s something like a mix of stubbornness and a complete lack of will to keep existing.”_ Eventually, even Hiro ran out of steam. Hanbee stood numbly to leave with his son, face twisted in agony he was completely helpless do anything about.

It had been so long, but they were still here, were still hoping. Furuta had escaped the same day that Shinohara’s son had shot himself, and as sick as it sounded, that had been a welcome distraction fr the old investigator and his son-in-law. Eventually it had come out through the combined efforts of the shambles of Suzuya Squad and the rest of Goat, that the rotten fruit had been the one to leak the information to the kids, and that the kids had been the reason he had been able to escape, having given him a can of RC suppressant spray. A manhunt had been launched, leading to a confrontation with the reformed V and Furuta inexplicably nearly dying to protect the children created by his own twisted scheme. As everyone had disliked the idea of the rotten fruit dying a hero, he had been saved more out of spite than anything. Kimi’s medicine had begun to work, and the ghouls and half-ghouls of Goat had been able to start eating human food. The younger children had started school. Hanbee, Shinohara, and the rest of Suzuya Squad had done the best they could to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives.

Shinohara leaned forward, kissing his child’s forehead. “Goodnight,” he whispered.

Juuzou’s eyes fluttered closed.

Even after two long years, they were all still hoping for a brighter tomorrow.


End file.
